


Verdorbenheit

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 00:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Trapped at an wild party he does not want to be at, Schneider ends up babysitting a very high Paul.





	Verdorbenheit

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation: "Depravity"
> 
> This is inspired both by my daydreaming and Lily's [wonderful fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14459940)!!

Smoke hangs thickly in the air, joined by the stench of beer and weed. Raucous laughter is filling the demolished room, a room full of broken couches and terribly stained surfaces. Graffiti decorates the walls. The windows lining the outer wall all bear jagged holes in the glass, a sign of abuse left behind by the drunk and/or high assholes who threw beer bottles or rocks through its panes. There’s constantly a bellowed string of belligerent, incomprehensible curses or a piercing shout, often spoken by a man who wants to be noticed. There are topless women lounging about, careless in their exposure. All meshed together, this combination of depravity makes for a fucking mess. Schneider has a headache. This really is not his scene. He prefers private drinking (or smoking) with people he’s familiar with; _friends,_ even. He’s not a goddamn wild animal like everyone else here.

He was under the impression getting wasted would lessen his distaste, but he’s as annoyed and disgusted as he was when he first walked in with Paul by his side. Hidden under the unruly mop of his hair, he frowns. He sits on one ruined couch, arms crossed. Paul previously ran off to say hi to some people he played with, leaving Schneider alone. So far, Schneider had faced the advances of two women, one of which was high off her mind on something that was absolutely _not_ weed.

After stewing in his misery for another ten minutes, Schneider is abruptly pulled from his internal bitching when Paul suddenly reappears in a burst; he throws himself onto the couch and against Schneider’s side. He beams at Schneider and winks at him—Paul has a lit joint between his fingers. Schneider watches dimly past his curly bangs as the other man takes a final drag of it and then reaches past him to put it out on the armrest of the couch. Then with his arm outstretched, he bonelessly flops down onto Schneider and moans, “Fuck, I’m so out of it, Schneider.”

“You are,” Schneider agrees. Considering he is high himself, Schneider unravels his arms to pat Paul on the head, stroking at his haphazard, bleached ponytail that is beginning to fall apart. Paul purrs like a cat—it has Schneider smiling, faintly. Then suddenly, similar to a spring, Paul jerks back up into a seated position and rakes his fingers up through the blonde locks which have escaped the ponytail, surrounding his face in a burst. He looks at Schneider with a tilted grin on his face. He blinks his eyes, one eyelid at a time, while crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out. Then he bursts out laughing, that broad, blindingly bright smile showing through and accentuating his laugh lines.

“What is the matter with you?” Schneider questions past his sputtering laugh, reaching out to swat him upside the head. Paul snatches his wrist out of the air and then angles his head to bite his hand between his teeth. Schneider jerks his hand back and looks at Paul incredulously, amused. Paul snickers and proclaims in a slur, “I think I took something that was not just weed. Uh… From those other guys I went to talk to.”

Schneider presses his lips together and looks at the other man with slight concern. Reaching up, Schneider sweeps his wavy bangs out of his eyes and says, “Paul, aren’t you tired of this yet? We’ve been here for two hours.”

“Yep,” Paul confirms while tucking his extinguished joint into Schneider’s coat pocket, “We can go. The weed is making me crash and I am _not_ going to fall asleep here.”

“Smart thinking,” Schneider remarks wryly, and then clutches Paul’s slender wrist in his broad hand as he moves to rise. As soon as he stands from the couch, Schneider loses all sense of balance. His entire world spins—he didn’t anticipate the alcohol and dope to hit him so hard. Being seated _really_ makes this easier.

He stumbles back into the couch, ultimately taking Paul with him considering the grasp on his wrist. Shouting in surprise, Paul ends up tumbling back with him and landing partially on _top_ of him. He bursts out laughing while planting his hands on the armrest and on the couch cushion to weakly hoist himself up. He loses his strength and collapses back onto Schneider, who groans. Around them, people seem too wrapped up in their own worlds to acknowledge their humiliating display, save for two women who walk by with amused expressions on their faces.

“Shit,” Schneider curses, slurring slightly. Paul has his cheek against his chest, his hands clutching weakly at his jacket. He keeps trying to rise, but repeatedly fails and just ends up sprawled across the younger man. Schneider sighs and mumbles, “Sorry. I forgot I was drunk.”

Paul says nothing, he just giggles. Schneider helps the other man sit up by pushing at his shoulders with both hands. Paul splats back against the couch and wipes his hands over his face. Schneider plants his hand on the armrest and moves to stand again. This time, he anticipates the dizziness when it hits him. He staggers a step forward, though regains his balance. His vision is spinning and it’s freaking him out a little. He turns to Paul. Paul’s eyes are rolling around in their sockets—it looks like he’s tracing the ceiling with his vision as it spins above him.

“C’mon,” Schneider mumbles, reaching out to grab his bicep, firmly. Paul slurs something unintelligible as Schneider tugs him up, winding his arm around his shoulders. Then Paul laughs and says something that Schneider _can_ understand, “You’re so strong.”

“Thanks. Now use your feet,” Schneider remarks, attempting to get them at least one step towards the door. Around them, a few people are laughing at Paul’s delirious, hammered state. It irritates Schneider; he could use some fucking help with this idiot. Paul stumbles a little, but Schneider is able to walk him to the crowded exit with more ease than he anticipated. People spread like the Red Sea upon noticing the pair. Schneider darkly eyes anyone who grins like a fucking moron at their display. Pricks.

Shoving out into the cool air, they step upon dry grass. It rustles noisily under their feet as Schneider begins towards their van. Paul moans next to him and murmurs, “That feels great. Hey… Can you carry me, Schneider? I don’t wanna walk anymore.”

Schneider curses when Paul stops using his legs entirely; he begins to drop towards the grass, but Schneider manages to catch him by tightening his arm around him and hoisting him back up against his side.

“You idiot, I can barely walk myself!” Schneider growls, his sweaty, flushed face twisting into a grimace.

“Lemme ride your back,” Paul slurs, pressing his face into Schneider’s shoulder, “And if you fall, you can just land on me. I’ll be your cushion, as compensation for your service.”

“I am genuinely shocked you managed to think of that word considering your current state.”

“I’m _really_ smart.”

“Uh huh.”

A moment of silence passes, pierced by the uproar of the party and the chatting of nearby people. Then Schneider heaves a sigh and says, “Fine, we can try. But if I fall and you break a damn leg or something, you can’t blame me.”

“I… Uh… I doubt I would remember, Schhhhn,” Paul begins, and for some reason, just trails off rather than finishing Schneider’s name. Schneider believes him. He gently sets Paul down, who sits on the grass with confusion and deliriousness on his boyish face—he begins to look around with slow turns of his head, his hands placed flatly upon the grass. Schneider moves to crouch, back to the other man. Paul notices and reaches out to grasp weakly at his windbreaker jacket. Schneider glances over his shoulder to see him unsteadily rising up onto his feet. He’s wobbling like a newborn kitten.

“Oh my God, Paul,” Schneider bursts out a laugh, eyes widened, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this high.”

Paul shushes him loudly and then practically splats onto his back. Schneider nearly topples forward, laughing, but manages to catch himself on a hand. Then he readjusts his footing and reaches back to hook both arms under Paul’s legs. Paul is very light, so it’s not that hard lifting him. Schneider’s biggest obstacle is his own intoxicated state. He manages it though, with two unsteady steps forward. He tightens his hold on the smaller man. Paul wraps his slender arms around his neck; his skin is slick with sweat and his fine arm hair tickles Schneider’s skin.

“Yay,” Paul says, spoken close to Schneider’s ear. He then rests his cheek against Schneider’s back—he begins to make a sound similar to a snore. Schneider tests himself by taking a couple steps, slowly. He seems to be in control of his legs, for the most part. He begins towards the cluster of cars. He knows he _won’t_ be driving, but at least Paul can crash on the bed in the van. That’s better than in there.

God, that sounds amazing. The bed in the van is surprisingly very comfortable. It has an abundance of blankets and pillows that _actually have pillowcases_. Schneider contemplates making Paul sleep on the floor so he can have it to himself.

Once at the van, Schneider shakily crouches—he nearly tips over, but manages to catch himself. Then he lets Paul’s legs go and says, “Paul, we’re here. Get off.”

“You’re so warm,” Paul slurs, though he obeys. He crawls off Schneider to lay on his side on the grass, folding his arms under his head like a pillow. Schneider stands and digs his hands into his pockets; he produces Paul’s weed, some crumpled cash, and gum wrappers before locating the keys. It takes a couple attempts, but he manages to get the side door unlocked. He tugs it open, nearly tripping in the process, and then turns to Paul. Schneider nudges him with his shoe and says, “Paul. Get up. Bedtime.”

“Mmmno.”

Paul rolls over and curls up into a ball. Schneider sighs. He begins lightly kicking Paul in the side as he repeatedly, flatly says, “Paul… Paul. Paul. Paul. Paul.”

“ _What?”_ Paul groans, turning his head to look up at him with squinting, bloodshot eyes. Schneider crosses his arms and says, “The grass is cold and damp. The bed in the van is warm and comfortable. Get your bony ass up—unless you want to sleep out here all night.”

Paul sighs and then sluggishly extends his arm to hold his hand out to the other man. Schneider unravels his arms and reaches out to grasp it—it’s much smaller in his own. Then he firmly tugs him up, but not without stumbling back into the open van due to his own imbalance. Like at the couch, his grip on Paul has the smaller man stumbling forward, onto _him._ They lay haphazardly together on the floor of the van, wheezing with laughter, legs tangled. Paul’s face is pressed against Schneider’s wild, sweat-slicked locks.

“Shit, you need to shower,” Paul grumbles, pushing himself up onto his hands to look down at Schneider with a puckered expression, “Your hair smells like sweat and… Unwashed hair.”

Schneider smiles with amusement, hazy blue eyes lidded.

“Thanks.”

Then he reaches out to grab a fistful of Paul’s belt; he tugs him up entirely into the van, earning a shocked cry from Paul. He’s so fucking light from poor diet, Schneider could easily manhandle him. Schneider then reaches out to grip the handle of the door and slam the door shut. He’s coherent enough to remember to lock the door. No way in hell he’s going to let them get robbed at a fucking party.

“Onto the bed, c’mon,” Schneider says, staggering up onto his feet, but keeping his head low to avoid hitting the ceiling of the car. Paul groans from the carpeted floor. Schneider reaches out to grab onto his faded teal sweater and yank him up onto his feet again—or at least, he attempts to. Paul nearly chokes himself on the collar of his sweater due to not using his goddamn feet. Paul claws weakly at his broad hands and snaps, his angered voice slurring heavily, “Stop fucking doing that!”

“You’re useless,” Schneider growls, letting him go. Paul collapses onto the floor and curses. He plants his hands on the carpet and then slides his knees up to attempt setting his feet on the floor. His shoes, wet from the damp grass, slide helplessly across the carpet. He begins to get frustrated. He growls into the floor.

“You want help?” Schneider asks flatly, still standing/crouching in the center of the van. Paul grumbles and says, “Oh, if you would be so kind.”

“I am that kind,” Schneider remarks, reaching down to hook both hands under his arms. He grimaces. Paul sweat through the underarms of his sweater. That is not pleasant against his hands. Schneider hoists him up; Paul scrambles to set his feet on the floor. He bangs his head on the ceiling of the van and curses again. Schneider manhandles him towards the bed in the back by practically carrying him to it—which is difficult to do considering they’re both hunched over from the lack of room. Schneider tosses the smaller man onto the bed. The bed does not have any springs, so Paul just splats onto it like he’s a dead man. He moans into the blankets, and just lays there motionlessly, sprawled out with his legs hanging off the side. Then he wiggles higher up onto the mattress to bundle himself up in the blankets.

Schneider crouches to dig a sealed bottle out from one of the small cabinets in the wall of the van. He unscrews the lid and brings it to his lips. He chugs down a quarter of its contents; it’s water that tastes flat and earthy, but it’s hydrating and refreshing. He wipes off his lips on his windbreaker sleeve and then crawls over to the bed.

“Hey, jerk. Drink some water.”

He presses the bottle against Paul’s ass. Paul fidgets around under the blankets and eventually sticks his head up to look back at him dazedly. He eyes the bottle distrustfully but reaches out for it regardless. Schneider warily watches him take it in hand. He knows he’s going to spill it.

Paul immediately drops it—he hadn’t anticipated the weight. Schneider grabs it sooner than the water can spill. Paul frowns at him. Schneider gets up from the floor and takes a seat on the bed.

“I can hold it,” he says. Paul nods and scoots closer to him, until their sides are aligned. Schneider brings his arm around him without thinking and raises his other hand, bearing the bottle of water, to press the rim to Paul’s dry lips. Paul looks at nothing in particular as he closes his lips around it. He begins noisily drinking when Schneider carefully tips it. It feels like he’s feeding a helpless, dehydrated animal some water—not that far from the truth.

Paul grunts as he continues greedily slurping it down. Only when it begins dribbling down his chin and neck does he grimace and begin to pull away. Schneider removes his arm from around him and screws the cap back on. He sets it on the carpet beside the bed.

Outside, the party rages on, noisily. They can hear people talking from outside the van. It’s strangely soothing, in a way. They’re in their own world now, separated from all that bullshit. Schneider likes it. It’s serene. Paul, meanwhile, had laid back down into the pillows and closed his eyes. His sweater had ridden up, exposing his tummy. His hands are resting up by his head, fingers among wild locks of bleached hair.

He’s laying across the bed horizontally though, not vertically. Schneider sighs. He reaches out to hook his arms around Paul’s legs. He pulls them up and onto the bed, to shove them under the covers. Paul mumbles but ultimately lets him do what he wants. Eventually, after some maneuvering, Paul is laying correctly along the bed, nestled deeply in the blankets and pillows like a contented cat. He’s hugging a pillow to himself.

Letting out a deep breath, Schneider sags back against the mound of pillows on his end of the bed (a bed that is not very big, mind you; his long legs are hanging off completely). It’s a bit of a relief that he was able to pull this off. He just wanted to get Paul someplace safe. He’s still drunk and a bit high himself—his vision is spinning a little and his head feels thick and foggy. But now that he’s (kind of) laying in this familiar bed in the van, he feels much more sober and comfortable.

“Move over, squirt,” Schneider mumbles, nudging Paul on the leg with a hand. He watches with lidded eyes as Paul takes a moment to sluggishly dig his arm out from under the blankets. Considering he’s laying on his stomach, Paul has to angle his hand upside down to correctly flip him off. Schneider’s thin lips break into a broad grin. He withholds his laugh; he doesn’t want to give Paul the satisfaction. Schneider reaches up to wipe his wavy, sun-bleached bangs out of his eyes before he nudges Paul’s legs to the side, so he can fit, too. He kicks off his shoes and then grabs some of the thick blankets to wiggle underneath them.

It’s warm, it’s comfortable, it’s _just_ what Schneider needed. His eyes scream with thankfulness when he lets them roll shut. As Schneider progressively sinks deeper and deeper into the pillows, Paul tiredly turns onto his side, facing the other man, to wrap his arms around his legs, clinging to them. Schneider allows it.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
